Bubbly
by alternaurora
Summary: Dean and Castiel find themselves with a night to kill as Sam heads to the Big Apple for New Year's Eve, so Dean decides to treat the angel to a night out at the local bar. Sure, Earth sucks most of the time, but heaven doesn't have champagne and fireworks. (Destiel, holiday shmoop, fluffiness all around)


Notes:

A huge thank you to everyone on & AO3 for the likes/kudos/undeservedly generous comments on my last fic, 'Only Sentiment Remains'. You are all fantastic human beings. This one's much more lighthearted, and longer. And my apologies for any awkward typos, as I have no proofreader and my keyboard's 'E' has been on the fritz.

Disclaimer: I don't own SPN, these characters, or anything to do with them (or even a good chunk of the stuff I actually own, thanks to loans and banks).

Enjoy. 3

* * *

"So, since this is where we go our separate ways until after the big sparkly ball drops, thanks to Sammy here and his hot date," Dean said with an exaggerated wink at his little brother and a click of his tongue as he raised his whiskey glass to his two companions, who responded in kind. "A simple toast: Cheers, gentlemen. Till next year, Hasta la vista."

Three glasses clinked and Dean, Sam, and Castiel took a synchronized sip of the amber liquid.

"Damn, Dean, where on Earth did you find this stuff?" Sam wondered aloud after letting the whiskey roll about on his palate. "That's smooth!"

"Got it shipped to our local P.O. box from some liquor store in New Jersey," Dean explained. He picked up the bottle of twenty-three year old bourbon and replenished Sam's glass until it once again held the sufficient two-fingers worth. "I figured Team Free Will's first New Year's together, short as it is, should call for something a bit better than bottom shelf. Maxed out one of the cards on it. We'll have to start running numbers soon so we can get our credit back in the green."

Sam, dressed in a nicely cut suit jacket and smartly casual jeans and t-shirt, took another decadent sip of the bourbon. Then his eyes fixed on their friend. "You okay there, Cas?"

The angel in question looked like he had just bit into a lemon. He rolled the liquid around his mouth like he'd seen the brothers do before choking it down with a sound of disgust. He plunked his glass down on the kitchenette's faux-marble counter before turning to the Winchester brothers with a markedly irritated look of betrayal.

"Nectar of the Gods, eh, Cas?" Dean joked with a face-splitting grin, raising his voice so Castiel would hear him over his brother's laughter.

"That was a far cry from ambrosia," Castiel accused. "It tastes like fire, Dean."

"Actually, according to the bottle, it's 'ripe fruit and chocolate, plus charred oak from the barrel,'" Dean elaborated.

"Yes, charred," Castiel growled. He narrowed his eyes at Dean. "If hell had a flavor, that would not be far from the description."

"Oh come on, Cas, it's not that bad," Sam teased.

"Well I beg to differ," Castiel said in a voice bordering on petulant, made all the more amusing by the weight of his angelic might pulling his vessel's normal pitch down to a near-growl.

"Look on the bright side, Sammy. More for us." Dean knocked back the last of his drink and put his glass down on the counter next to Castiel's. "And I promise not to finish it on you while you're floating down the Hudson, alright?"

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous," Sam said with a half-grin.

"Of your little blonde bartender? On some level, perhaps you may be right. But you can keep your damn party-boat. I ain't going anywhere near New York City on New Year's, thank you very much."

"You sure? Aubrey said I could bring friends if I wanted to. Free drinks all night, that's right up your alley."

Dean snatched the now-empty whiskey glass from Sam's hand and pointed it sternly in his brother's face. "And this will be right up your ass if you don't drop it. I hate the city." He grabbed the other two glasses from the counter and placed them in the sink, filling them each with a splash of water.

"That's enough," Castiel chided Dean, who visibly bristled. The angel turned to the taller brother and looked up at him impatiently. "Are you ready to leave, Sam?"

"Whenever you are, Cas," Sam replied.

Dean whirled on his brother and their angel with a scrunched brow. "Whoa, you're not going with him, are you, Cas?" he asked.

"Certainly not," Castiel said derisively. "Just offering a safe and responsible holiday transportation service." He turned his attention back to Sam, placing the two fingers of his right hand unceremoniously on the man's forehead. "South Street Seaport in Manhattan, correct?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Cas."

"Call us with your location when you're ready to leave tomorrow."

And without even a heavenly head-tilt or flick of his Castiel's wrist, Sam was gone.

Dean blinked at the empty space where his brother was standing only seconds before. "Ah, I get it," he said. "Angel taxi."

"More or less. Are you certain this isn't a trap? As far as I'm aware, he barely knows this woman."

Dean plucked his leather jacket from the bedpost and slipped it on, giving it a tug for good measure. "I've met her— she checks out. Her older brother's helped us out a few times over the years. He's got his own operation out on the west coast, mostly vamps and werewolves."

"How does a girl from the west coast end up bartending in New York City?"

"Dude, that sounds like a pick-up line."

"Dean."

"It's simple." Dean cracked a smile. "Dreams of becoming a Broadway sensation crash and burn every day, my friend. Most of them either turn to waiting tables or serving up the liquid painkillers to the rest of their fallen comrades. Only difference is this one comes from a family of hunters and has a thing for our little Sammy."

Castiel watched with a raised eyebrow as Dean pulled a red scarf from his duffel bag and swirled it around his neck.

"What?" Dean barked defensively.

"Nothing," Castiel replied instantly, though the humorous twitch at the corner of his lip betrayed him. "You don't accessorize very often. It's different."

"Yeah, different because it's seven friggin' degrees out. And you might not be able to feel the cold, but if we're walking to the bar, you're going to look the part. The locals will think you're a nutjob if they see you out there in that light trench coat of yours, walking around like it's the asscrack of springtime."

"Then what would you suggest?" Castiel asked. Dean was rustling through another piece of luggage stuffed to the brim with all sorts of clothing rolled up military-style.

"Well, I've got another leather coat out in the car that will definitely fit you. As far as everything else goes, I'm pretty sure we're around the same size." Dean pushed himself to his feet and handed a stack of clothing to Castiel.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" Castiel asked, eyebrows scrunched.

"In ordinary circumstances, nothing. But let's be honest, Cas. You look like you just got out of work. It's New Year's Eve! We might not be cool cats on a party boat like Sam, but we're allowed to relax and enjoy ourselves too. Now go change, I'll go get your coat."

—

Your coat.

Those were his words. Dean was giving him one of his leather coats. Dean treasured them, wore them like a second skin— an armor. Behind the closed bathroom door, Castiel couldn't help but smile even as he struggled through the every day human task of changing one's clothing.

His vessel never grew any less clean. If his clothing ever dirtied, he could use his Grace to have it spotless and fresh in a moment's time. He had only suffered through this task once or twice in the past. In comparison to the human ability of changing one's clothing in a matter of seconds, Castiel couldn't blame Dean for the laughter coming from the other side of the door.

"It's not like it's a tux, Cas. Hurry it up."

Fully clothed and relatively certain he hadn't missed any buttons or snaps or zippers or whatever other nightmarish contraptions human tailors could sew into a garment, Castiel opened the door to Dean holding out one of his worn-out and much-traveled leather coats.

"Tada!" Dean said in a voice that Castiel couldn't pin-point as either fully sarcastic or genuine.

Either way, Castiel accepted the coat and donned it with no small amount of help from the hunter (at least the t-shirt stretched). Once he had fully lengthened his arms in the sleeves, he moved about in it to get a feel for his vessel's new adornments and found that Dean's hand-me-down fit like a glove.

That, and unlike the freshly laundered blue jeans, t-shirt (Black Sabbath— he wasn't sure whether that was meant to be a joke or not, but decided that if it was a joke, it was an amusing one), and midnight blue button-up, the coat still smelled like it's previous owner, and that was a pleasant surprise.

Dean gave Castiel a once-over and nodded with a proud smirk. "I gotta admit, Cas, you look pretty normal. We might be able to make a hunter out of you yet."

"Will I have to wear plaid?"

"Yeah. The plaid's mandatory. Don't knock the plaid."

"Fine." Castiel conceded. "Shall we go?"

—

Their first round of drinks came when Dean was helping Castiel out of his newly inherited leather coat. Putting the thing on had been, all-in-all, mostly painless, but shrugging out of it was proving to be a more difficult maneuver for the angel to master.

"Dude, you have wings. Shouldn't your upper body be more flexible than this?"

Castiel shimmied his shoulders uncomfortably while Dean started yanking at the sleeves. "If you would allow me, I could make this much easier for both of us."

"I told you, no angel magic in public. Now relax."

Dean freed Castiel from the troublesome coat and tossed it into the far end of the corner booth they had snagged, letting it flop into a pile on top of his own. As much as Dean had been telling himself for years that it wasn't in his nature to notice such things about other guys, he had to admit to himself that Castiel cleaned up well. Damn well, really. It had been a self-indulgent whim to offer the angel his dark blue button-down, thinking it would suit him, but he had been so right. The color was rich enough to make his eyes pop and at the same time emphasize how impossibly dark his mess of wind-mussed hair was, the collar underlining the sharp angle of his jaw.

Dean's wandering thoughts were brought to a halt by the arrival of their waitress. She was a leggy thing— short slicked back dark hair and dramatic makeup covering an otherwise pretty face. Even a couple hours outside of the big city they still seemed to be putting on a show, Dean thought. She was cute, he concluded— the sort of girl he imagined the new wave of emasculated whiny rocker guys would go for— but all he could seem to give a damn for were the drinks on her little tray.

"Scotch and soda?" the waitress called. Dean raised a finger with a casual 'that'd be me' and she placed it down in front of him. "Guess that leaves the rum and Coke for you, hun." She handed it to Castiel with a playful wink. "Enjoy, boys. I'll be back in a few to check up on you."

Castiel offered a polite 'thank you' as she sauntered away. Then, once she was gone: "Dean, is the waitress flirting with me?"

Dean nearly spit out his mouthful of diluted Johnny Walker. "It's hard to say, Cas. What, not enjoying it?" he teased.

"It doesn't seem very genuine."

"She's probably playing the crowd for tips. Either that or she's single and she's weighing her prospects for the big midnight kiss."

Castiel lifted his glass to his lips and tested the flavor of his rum and coke. He angled his head ever so slightly, smirked ever so slightly— little movements that were just so Cas— and took a drink in earnest.

"Like it?" Dean asked.

"I do," Castiel replied. "You made a good call. That swill back at the motel was horrible, but this much easier to tolerate."

"They only have shit beer here anyway. Time to live a little, Cas. It's a holiday. Try new things."

Castiel quirked an eyebrow. "I'm wearing denim and drinking a cocktail. Believe me, Dean, I'm trying."

For the second time in as many minutes, Dean nearly choked on his drink. That's right, he remembered. Cas is wearing my pants.

Dean was brought back into focus by the sound of Castiel's voice as the guy stared off towards the television hanging behind the bar. The angel had that look on his face like he always did when he was struggling to understand some of the less obvious aspects of humanity.

"If the masses of people on the television with silly eyeglasses and flashy toys screaming at one another are anything to go by, am I right to assume this midnight kiss you mentioned is just another strange holiday tradition?"

"Yeah, sort of," Dean said, relieved that Castiel's attentions were focused elsewhere because this was not something he could explain to another dude and keep a straight face, let alone Castiel, angel of the Lord. "I guess it's mostly a thing that couples do, to ring in the new year, yanno? Good luck for the rest of the year if they do, bad luck if they don't. Now horny drunks pair up and jump on the bandwagon for the hell of it because hey, it's a free excuse for a sloppy public make-out session."

Castiel pensively brought the rum and Coke to his lips, eyes still trained on the television. "That sounds very unpleasant." He sipped. "The concept of measuring time holds so much more weight to your kind. I cannot imagine that sharing such an intimate moment with a stranger would be a pleasant way to begin a year."

Dean looked away from the rim of Castiel's drink where the angel's lips had left a signature smudge. "Yeah, well, don't bait the waitress then."

As if summoned, the young woman clomped up to their booth in her glittery heels. "Ready for round two, gentlemen?"

"Same for me," Dean said as she took his empty glass. "How 'bout you, Cas?"

"You decide. I liked what you picked the first time," Castiel said. "Try new things, right?"

Their eyes met and Dean couldn't help but smile.

Dean took the empty glass from Castiel's hand and placed it on the waitress's tray himself. "A Long Island iced teafor my friend here, would you sweetheart? Use the good stuff." He dismissed her with the same phony wink he gave Sam earlier. She forced a smile at him, her eyes indignant, and carried their order off with noisy shoes to the bartender.

"I thought we weren't baiting the waitress," Castiel said.

"We're not. We're just pissing her off by playing along with her game."

"I don't understand."

"Trust me, you don't want to. It's stupid."

"I'll take your word for it, Dean."

Moments later, their second round of drinks arrived without a word from the waitress. Castiel lifted his glass to his face, letting the aromas of the drink waft into his nose.

"This doesn't smell like tea."

"It's just the name, Cas. Try it."

Castiel did as he was told and scrunched his nose as the potent concoction hit his tastebuds. Dean was expecting the reaction but still couldn't hold back a laugh.

"This is definitely not tea."

"But do you hate it?" Dean asked. It was an honest question. If the angel hated whiskey, the odds of him hating tequila and vodka and a little bit of whatever else bartenders chuck in that thing were less— well, basically, the guy tolerated beer, but he had to like something.

"No," Castiel replied. "It is just not what I expected."

"Still no home runs, but two out of three ain't bad."

"Not bad at all." Castiel flashed his eyebrows at Dean with a smirk and then began to nurse the drink.

And with that more-human-than-usual gesture, Dean knew Castiel was building a buzz. He must have told his Grace to take a backseat for the night. Though it made sense when he thought about it, Dean figured. One drink normally wouldn't do a damn thing to the guy, but now that he was probably channeling his outer human, one drink on an incredibly empty stomach was enough to kickstart anyone's night. Besides, back at the motel he was going on about how he couldn't feel temperature, but now here the angel was, sniffing things and talking about tastes that were a bit more complicated than a smoky whiskey. Dean was no expert on this whole Grace thing, but if Castiel had leashed it enough to dabble in some of the senses, the others must have kicked in too.

"You're not cold, are you? I would have given you a warmer shirt if I knew you were gonna— well, whatever it is you did."

Castiel glanced down at the table briefly before turning humored eyes back up at Dean. "I'm fine, Dean, thank you. I still have complete control over my Grace, I've just used my vessel to turn the dial back a couple notches, or so you'd say. If you're being generous enough to share this important human holiday with me, the least I can do to thank you is try my best to fully experience it."

Castiel raised his glass to Dean, mimicking the toast from earlier. Dean clinked his drink against the angel's and took a lingering sip, their eyes never wavering from one another.

"That's just as well. You don't look your smitey ole' self anyway, pal," Dean quipped, breaking the moment.

"I look like you," Castiel said. "You smite."

"Humans do not smite. We kick people's asses."

"Same basic principle. I could look smitey if I please, no matter what or who I'm wearing."

Castiel cradled his drink in his palm. Slowly the bottom of the glass began to glow, a golden light slowly illuminating the brown drink to the hue of shimmering sunlight. His irises began to shift to an ethereal white, mischief playing at the corners of his lips.

Now even more thankful than before that they had nabbed a corner booth out of sight of most of the bar's other patrons, Dean frowned as he tried to ignore the small flutter of excitement in his chest. "No magic, remember?"

"I wouldn't think of it, Dean." Castiel blinked at him with his regular stormy blues, sipping at his normal brown Long Island iced tea.

"Very funny, angel boy. Just promise me you'll use your muted mojo to keep your stomach in line, alright? Mixing liquor doesn't usually end well for us humans."

"You have nothing to worry about, I assure you."

"Good. You stay here, I'm going to get you a burger. I can't even remember the last time I saw you eat anything."

"The fruitcake!" Castiel called as Dean left for the bar. Dean whirled around mid-step and pointed a warning finger at the angel, who raised his hands innocently in response.

Dean hopped up onto a stool at the bar in front of where a middle-aged woman who looked like she could be the owner was staring to pour cheap champagne into dozens of glasses lined up on the counter.

"Prepping for the countdown?" he asked.

"You know it, son," she replied with a charming grin. "What can I get for you?"

"Your best burger, medium rare. And any chance I can get an advance on a small one of those?" Dean asked, pointing at the parade of champagne flutes.

"Don't be in such a rush, boy. You've got a bit of time yet, the wait won't kill you."

"It's not for me," Dean replied quickly. He lightly tossed his head in the direction of the booth where Castiel still sat watching the television hanging over the bar. "You see, I honestly don't think my friend's ever had champagne before. He wants to do New Year's right, but I don't want his first drink of the year to end up being something he hates. I was hoping I could give it a test-run, just in case."

The woman put down the bottle and leaned forward on the bar, crossing her elbows. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Dean," he replied, seeing no reason to lie.

"Pleasure to meet you, Dean. I'm Suzanna," the woman said, taking his fingers in a light handshake. "And your friend?"

"Cas," Dean said. "It's short for some weird foreign name, some country up north. One of those blue-eyed people places where everyone's grumpy."

Suzanna laughed, her crows feet crinkling honestly as she studied Dean. "How long have you two boys been together?"

Dean blanched. "Excuse me?"

"Please, Dean, I'm a bartender. Do you honestly think I haven't seen a couple of lovebirds like you two before?"

"Look lady, I—" Dean put his palms firmly down on the counter, grasping at scattered thoughts. "We're not like that. We're FBI. He's my partner."

"Do all FBI agents order drinks for their partners, help them with their coats?"

Dean's mouth fell open and he slammed it shut instantly, breathing harshly. "Can I just have his burger?"

"Of course you can, I'll have Nicole bring it out as soon as it's done."

Dean hopped off the barstool, quite ruffled and irate, when he heard the delicate sound of glass behind him. He turned to see that Suzanna had placed a filled champagne flute at the counter where he'd been sitting.

"On me," she said. "On one condition."

"And that is?" Dean asked skeptically.

"Come let me know what he thinks of it when he's done."

—

Castiel lifted the champagne flute and tilted his head as he studied it. He tapped his finger on the side of the glass and a delighted smile lit his face when the slow stream of rising bubbles momentarily danced and rushed upward.

"This is different," Castiel said with wonder in his voice. "What is it?"

"Champagne," Dean answered. "Snobby French stuff."

"I was under the impression that this country was not on good terms with France, Dean."

"Alcohol is an international language, so naturally some exceptions can be made. Besides, it's more of a special occasion drink than anything."

Castiel held his nose to the rim of the glass and let the crisp fruity aromas drift up to him. This 'special occasion' drink did seem more delicate— more polite, if anything. He moved to take a sip but stopped when he noticed that Dean's hands were empty.

"Are you not having any, Dean?" Castiel asked with more concern in his tone than necessary for such a trivial matter.

"Me? Nah, not yet. I'm not crazy about the stuff. I'll wait till midnight."

"Another tradition?"

Castiel was having a hard time keeping track of all of these minor nuances of human life. Midnight French alcohol and intimacy with strangers on New Year's Eve. Stale brick-shaped fruitcake in a box and mistletoe around Christmastime (though Dean had ripped all of it down and threw it in Sam's face almost as soon as the younger brother had finished hanging it up— Castiel had looked on in serious confusion at the scene, but Sam seemed to find it hilarious enough). All Hallow's Eve revolved around children begging adults for candy, and pumpkin-flavored coffee— pumpkin flavored everything, really, including pie, which he'd surprised Dean with one night when sent out on a beer run. That had been a nice evening, Castiel reflected, considering that the universe had retracted its unamusing sense of humor for the evening and they somehow didn't have a hunt on Halloween. Instead, the three of them sat on the couch watching some cable TV marathon of low-budget horror films, sipping pumpkin ale and eating pumpkin pie, a bowl of candy corn left untouched on the coffee table.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Midnight toast. Go on, give it a try. I figured we should find out if you can stomach the stuff first, so you don't start the year off spitting out your drink."

Castiel rolled his wrist, swirling the champagne, watching the little bubbles catch in the miniature liquid cyclone he'd created. New Year's Eve was seeming more and more unusual as time passed. He found that he couldn't complain though, not one bit. Instead of being at Sam's more-than-likely claustrophobic boat party, or with the insane sea of humanity on the television waiting for the ball to drop, or being shunned in heaven, or alone in the motel room, Dean had sacrificed his evening to make Castiel feel included. Wanted. Not even his own brothers had ever done as much for him as Dean Winchester continued to do day after day without even being asked.

Castiel could drink to that.

The angel tipped the flute in Dean's direction with a smirk before taking his first sip. The bubbles seemed to dance on his tongue, crackling and alive and delightful. The taste was crisp and fruity without being too sweet. He hadn't even realized his eyes had closed until he opened them to see Dean looking at him with patient excitement.

"And?"

"Champagne is magnificent."

The waitress (who Castiel now saw wore a nametag that read 'Nicole') set the plate with a mouth-watering burger and side of curly fries down in between Castiel and Dean. She used her sweet-talking lingo to see if they needed another round, to which Dean had immediately sent her on her way with a curt 'No, we're good for now, thanks.'

Castiel felt his stomach begin to roil in anticipation at the sight. Sure, it made sense that his vessel was in need of sustenance now that he had allowed a bit of humanity into the limelight for the night, but after their run-in with the Horsemen, Castiel found that he could never say no to a burger, angel or otherwise. He flicked his eyes to Dean, then back to the plate, back to Dean.

Castiel swallowed hesitantly. "Are you—"

"I ate back at the room, Cas. Dig in."

—

Dean laughed to himself. It was another very Cas thing for Castiel to do. The guy had seemed genuinely concerned that Dean hadn't gotten a second glass of champagne for himself, but put red meat in front of the angel and it's every man for himself.

Not that Dean cared. It was endearing, in a strange sort of way. Castiel, fallen angel of Thursday loved champagne and bar grub and never failed to surprise him.

As Castiel was working on a mouthful of burger and playing at the ends of a curly fry like it was the strangest thing he had ever encountered, Dean pushed himself to his feet.

"Eat up, Cas. I'll be back in a minute."

Dean heard Castiel's muffled attempt at words as Dean crossed the floor of the bar that seemed to be getting more and more crowded by the second.

Suzanna was waiting for him, leaning over her crossed arms on the bar top in a way that younger, more scantily-clad women did to emphasize their busty assets. Her face was lit with the beginnings of a smile, crinkles forming at the corners of her welcoming eyes.

"What's the verdict?" she asked.

Dean swung up onto the barstool and mirrored her stance, crossed arms and fighting a losing battle against a genuine grin. "I think my buddy's got a new favorite," he said. "Any chance you can spare a bottle for our table?"

"This ain't a restaurant, pal," Suzanna said. "Bottle service don't come cheap, especially tonight."

Dean twisted to reach into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He busied his hands playing with it, making sure that the glinting rim of the fake FBI badge inside it caught the bartender's eye. "Do you really think they can afford to skimp on the feds' salaries?"

Suzanna was silent for a long moment, studying Dean. "You'd do whatever it takes to make the guy happy, wouldn't you?"

Dean bit his lip and tore his gaze away, glancing down at his busied hands. He had always thought it was part of the job description that bartenders were required to be personable and perceptive. They all seemed to be varying degrees of both, on some level or another. Then there were bartenders like Suzanna who he swore had to be goddamn mind-readers.

Suzanna tapped her hand on the counter. "Hang tight a second, okay?" She twirled around and vanished into the back room.

Dean picked his head up slightly and lifted his eyes, looking around the edges of displayed liquor bottles on the shelf into the mirrored wall behind them. He could just make out an image of Castiel, sitting there looking so casual in Dean's clothes, drink in hand, cradling the glass casually with the stem between his ring finger and pinky like a seasoned pro. With a bit of a nervous pang in his chest, Dean couldn't help but think that things were starting to feel normal. Sure, this recent lull was inevitably just another eye in the endless wave of hurricanes that blew their lives to shreds and scattered everything and everyone they ever knew and loved. But it felt good, this semblance of a life with his little brother and Castiel. And no matter what heaven or hell or even fucking purgatory spat up on them, things always came around full circle and brought them right back together. Right where they belonged.

In the mirror, Dean's eyes were suddenly met. He could have sworn he saw the angel try to hide a smirk before Castiel turned quickly away.

Dean's own attention snapped back to the newly reappeared Suzanna who stood across the bar from him, wiping condensation off of a dark-tinted bottle with an immaculate white cloth. Her ministrations hid the the label from him, but he could tell from the foil-wrapped over-sized cork that it was a bottle of champagne.

"Thanks," Dean met her eyes with gratitude and a flash of white teeth. "Really, thank you."

Suzanna passed the bottle to him, bottom first, displaying it like a waiter would in a high-end restaurant. Dean accepted it and brushed his fingers over the label. He didn't know much about snooty sparkly drinks, but he knew enough to understand that this was the good stuff. This was the sort of thing an angel should be drinking on New Year's Eve.

"You haven't told him, have you?"

This time, Dean's breath didn't hitch. His ever-present anxiety didn't flare. He didn't tense up or flash a threatening stare at the owner of the voice who had spoken the words— words that he had tormented himself with time after time, night after night, every moment he had held the attention those curious blue eyes a second longer than he should have. How could Dean have told him yet when he had only just recently admitted it to himself? Occasional attraction to a guy was no surprise for him. He'd dabbled here and there, sure, but it was never anything serious. Nothing had ever felt like this, woman or man, and that was what terrified him. Until Castiel came along and and somehow over the years made himself an irreplaceable fixture in his life, nobody ever seemed worth it. Nobody seemed worth the effort of trying to make it work— really work in the end— trying to create a sad excuse for a life in between the violent splatter of vicious events Dean's existence had unfolded into.

But that was the thing about Castiel, really. They could spend the days comparing battle scars both visible and otherwise, taking notes on their equally checkered pasts, one-upping each other on daddy issues and sibling discontent. Species classifications aside, they really weren't so different. The angel had wormed his way so far into the new Winchester family unit that Dean didn't even have to worry about 'making it work.' It already did. All that was left now was the question of how Castiel felt about him. 'Profound bond' or not, the angel was a damned enigma and Dean could never quite read what Castiel was saying behind those borrowed eyes.

They'd been through enough, though. Years of proven loyalty and coming home to their imperfect family— to each other— even when reason screamed for them to turn tail and run. Increasingly frequent moments that begged not to be broken between them. Dean could only hope that his gut wasn't guiding him in the wrong direction. He would pray, but his go-to heavenly host was the figure in question, Castiel's brothers would never let either of them hear the end of it, and the angels' Father was so long-since removed from the picture that Dean figured praying to anybody upstairs would only make this matter worse.

Dean had two options. Either continue wasting time floundering about in his uncertainty, or have a little faith and leap into the blind.

Dean looked up at Suzanna and silently, humbly accepted defeat.

"Not yet."

—

Castiel felt no inclination to hide his smile when he saw Dean making his way back to their booth with a bottle in one hand, two champagne flutes dangling upside down from the fingers of his other hand. It was curious to see the hunter zig-zagging between tables while holding such delicate objects when even now, Castiel could still so easily picture those fingers gripped tight around a blade's hilt, or effortlessly pulling a shotgun trigger.

But there was no need for that tonight. To Castiel's surprise, the only weapon Dean had brought on his person was Ruby's knife tucked securely in his boot.

Dean felt safe. That made Castiel even happier than he already felt.

Thanks to his angelic tolerance, Castiel was far, far from drunk, and would never sully such a valuable evening by allowing himself to become so, but he let himself feel the faint beginnings of a 'buzz,' as Dean had called it once. Still totally functional and coherent, verbal filter not even close to faltering, but there was that extra bit of warmth in his veins, a touch of contradicting giddiness and relaxation that he'd learned to embrace.

"Dean Winchester, if I was not aware that you know how daunting the task is, I would assume you were trying to get me drunk."

Dean set the bottle and twin glasses on the table. "I couldn't afford to get you drunk, even with the gold card," he muttered, pulling on his scarf and leather coat.

Castiel tilted his head. "Are you cold?"

"No, but I will be. Finish your fries and bundle up, Cas. We're taking a walk."

"But you just bought that bottle, Dean, it would be a shame to—"

"It's coming with us, you dork, now come on!"

Dean laughed and walked around to Castiel's side of the booth and grabbed his arms, pulling the angel to his feet. Castiel pulled on Dean's— his — coat again, his arms complying more willingly this time, as Dean gathered up the bottle and glasses. Dean cocked his head toward the door, beckoning for him to follow.

Castiel had no clue why Dean wanted to venture out into the cold or why he wanted to leave what seemed like an appropriate celebratory holiday gathering, but he followed him.

After all, didn't he always?

—

There were a lot of things that Dean was uncertain about. But one of the things he knew for sure was that Suzanna was now his favorite bartender ever. He knew for certain that she could have charged him a few hundred bucks for that bottle of bubbly. He confidently thought, as he signed the check with an illegible signature to match the equally illegible scrawl on the back of his fake credit card, that she only charged him at cost, which was fucking amazing.

As he signed, he knew for certain that come January 2nd and the poor sap's credit statement refreshed, the guy most likely wouldn't give a damn if it was one hundred bucks and change or four times that much. Dean would be far away and cut that card up and start fresh because identity theft was a nightmare for all parties involved. He'd helped save the world a few times with no thanks at all, the least he could ask was that a few people suffer a handful of phone calls to their various financial institutions so that he could carry on with more in his pocket than loose change.

Dean also knew that Suzanna should be a saint. As he scribbled a generous tip on the check, she handed him the two glasses and said that there was a hidden overlook behind the bar that peeked out over a popular fireworks spot, and that they were welcome to sneak around back to enjoy the peaceful winter night, if they were so inclined.

Dean had passed the glasses to Castiel with a firm order not to drop them. They both needed a free hand to push through the small thicket of trees before they emerged out into the clearing. The bar was in a hilly area, just before the geography started shifting to the more serious stuff. The neighborhood seemed to have stopped abruptly as soon as it met the treeline they had just passed through. The ground below gradually swooped far out into the distance, trees smattering the scene, and Dean could just make out a park with a lake, a play area and basketball courts, the whole nine. He could see fuzzy silhouettes of families, of couples, groups of friends. Their voices and laughter were carried on the wind past him and Castiel, disappearing as quickly as they had arrived.

There was life thrumming out ahead of them and back at the bar behind them, but they were caught in between, sitting on the frozen grass in peaceful mutual solitude. Castiel had even worked some weather magic to kick the temperature up a few degrees, making it slightly less intolerable.

Dean wiped the remaining condensation off of the bottle with his t-shirt. "I've never done this, so if I make an ass of myself and get the cork stuck in my eye, do me a solid and poof it back to normal, okay?"

"I think I can manage that much," Castiel said. He watched Dean warily, unaware that he himself was even squinting a bit.

Dean tore off the black foil and angled the bottle away from them before he twisted apart and removed the wire cage. He cringed a bit. The only time he'd ever really seen this done was on television. "Here goes nothing." He held the cork firmly and began to twist the bottle towards him, loosening his grip on the top as he went. To his amazement, the cork shot out into the clear with an extremely satisfying 'pop!'

Dean turned to Castiel, knowing that the boyish grin on the angel's face was reflected on his own, both of them laughing. Their breath clouded in the cold night air. "Okay, that's kind of awesome," the hunter said.

Castiel held one of the glasses towards Dean, who slowly poured until it nearly reached the brim. "I suppose you can now add that to your list of skills."

Dean leaned over and filled the glass in Castiel's other hand. "There's a business card for you: 'Killing things and cheap party tricks.'"

"Versatility is the key to success, Dean," Castiel said with a joking smirk.

Dean set the now half-empty bottle down in the grass and accepted a filled champagne flute from Castiel. They clinked the tips of the glasses together and took a simultaneous sip.

"This stuff really ain't that bad," Dean said, sounding impressed. "It's normally too fancy for my taste."

Castiel stole another quick taste. "I do appreciate you indulging me like this, Dean."

"Anytime. Well, not anytime, really. That's a lie. Like I said, it's a special occasion drink."

"I remember. Don't worry," Castiel said. "Still, thank you. You could have gone with Sam. You could still be drinking Scotch. You have done a lot for me this evening without thinking of yourself. I just want you to know that I recognize how selfless you have been tonight, and I'm grateful for it."

"I wouldn't call it selfless," Dean said.

"Why not?"

"I like seeing you happy," Dean said, meeting Castiel's eyes momentarily with a smirk before looking away again, worrying the bottom of his glass with anxious fingers. "Seeing you smile and knowing I'm the one that did it, well, it feels pretty great. You can't really consider it selfless if I'm doing it because I like it, now, can you?"

Castiel glanced at Dean, mouth agape almost as if he was wordless, before closing it again. "If you look at the world in that way, every unpleasant action is inherently selfish in some way. Mother Teresa would not have aided the poor if she had found it to be an excruciating task."

"That's true, I guess."

"It's all a matter of perspective."

Dean heard Castiel shiver as he topped off their glasses. It was barely audible over the fluid sounds of pouring liquid and the faint breeze that occasionally brushed by, but he heard it. He could see the angel curling inward slightly, as if he could somehow huddle with himself or trap his own body heat in the concave shape he made with his shoulders. Dean couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it.

Castiel frowned at him. "Is something funny?"

"You're cold."

"Yes, as you so enthusiastically pointed out when we were in the motel room, it is not the most comfortable temperature out here."

"Can't you just turn your angel dial back up and defrost a bit?"

"Easily," Castiel admitted. A more animated shiver shook his vessel. "But I told you, Dean. I want to experience this night the same as you."

"You angels are a bunch of stubborn jerks, you know that?"

Castiel angled his head at Dean with a roll of his eyes. "More than you will ever even begin to fathom, Dean."

Dean laughed. "Fine," he said. He pushed to his feet and handed his drink to a now-puzzled Castiel. "Then we compromise."

Dean yanked at his red scarf and unwound it from his neck. He crouched down next to Castiel and wrapped it slowly, carefully around the angel's throat. Dean himself only tolerated the intrusion against his sensitive skin on frigid nights such as this. It reminded him too easily of all the times he'd had hands around his throat, or knives or teeth on his jugular. With an uneasy pang, Dean hoped that Castiel's fights had been less gritty. Angels and demons had little use for cheap back-alley tricks like that.

Dean knew that Castiel was watching him as he worked, so close. But Dean didn't dare meet his eyes out of concern for exactly what he might find there. That usual perplexing blank stare? Anxiety? Discomfort?

…affection, maybe?

Dean stomped out that hope as quickly as it bubbled up and gave a short pull on the ends of the scarf to tighten it. Swallowing his nerves, he looked at Castiel and breathed easy when he saw moonlit blue eyes shining gratitude back at him.

"Thank you, Dean." Castiel shimmied his shoulders up and down a bit, lowering his chin, getting a sense of how the scarf felt against his skin. "It's soft."

Dean plucked his glass from Castiel's hand. "And warm?"

"Very. This material is quite good at absorbing body heat. What about you, though? Won't you be cold?"

"Well, fair's only fair, Cas."

Dean rocked back and planted his bottom on the ground again, legs casually swung out in front of him. He held his arm out to Castiel in invitation— the same arm on which the angel had left his mark in hell years ago. Dean tried to ignore the feeling of the once-dead heart in his chest which Castiel had so meticulously recreated, hammering against his ribcage, carved and claimed.

All humor drained from Castiel's face. After only a moment's hesitation that seemed like an eternity to Dean as dread and panic and oh God what have I done began to consume him, his offer was accepted. Castiel scooted towards Dean and sidled up against him, his legs curled and angled outward. Dean slipped his arm around Castiel's waist, pulling him flush against his side.

Dean breathed out his anxiety slowly, with purpose. As he relaxed he felt Castiel do the same, his warm body melting into him. Dean peeked to the side to find that the angel's contented smile had returned.

So they were both okay with this, Dean thought. That was good. He was okay with this, which was even better since this was something he would have thought was totally insane not much earlier in his life. It was New Year's Eve and he was alone cuddling with his best friend who was also a genderless winged warrior of God who had zapped himself into the body of an attractive male salesman.

If Dean was being perfectly honest with himself, which damn it he was trying his best, there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Cas?"

"When you went to order my burger, the woman on the television was asking some of the crazy people in Times Square what their resolutions were. Is that another tradition?"

"'New Year's Resoultions'? Yeah. Not everyone bothers since ninety-nine percent of them give up within a week, but it never really seems to go away."

"A lot of people said that they wanted to exercise more and spend more time with their families."

"And they rarely ever do. It's pretty messed up. People celebrate a new year and start it off by lying to themselves."

"They might not all be lies. Perhaps it works under the same rules as birthday wishes," Castiel offered. "When they tell their resolution to the reporter, it can't come true."

Dean laughed and without thinking, gave an affectionate tug on the angel's waist. "Nah, Cas, they're different. Wishes are something you ask for. You gotta keep your mouth shut or the magic won't happen. New Year's Resolutions, well, they're like a dumbed down version of a vow. It's a promise to yourself. You have to work for it. It doesn't matter if only you know or if everyone watching the TV knows."

"Of all the good that people could accomplish, they all want to lose weight?" Castiel said incredulously. "That is immensely selfish."

"Welcome to Earth, Cas. Population: Mostly fat douchebags."

Castiel turned a curious gaze at Dean. "What's your resolution?"

"I don't bother," Dean scoffed. He rolled his empty champagne flute off to the side join Castiel's, the free hand now toying absently at the fabric of his jeans. He looked out over the sloping hill, not meeting the other man's eyes. Those wide blue eyes so close, so magnetic. So burdened with the knowledge of billions of years yet always aching to understand and be understood. At this proximity, Dean didn't trust himself to find the strength to look away.

"If you had to," Castiel pressed. "What would it be?"

"You first."

Castiel was quiet, looking away for minute as he considered the question, undoubtedly making it a bigger deal than it ever needed to be, Dean thought.

"I would like to become a better hunter," Castiel said with resolve, his body tensing. "It often seems like I am only a burden to you and Sam when my Grace is depleted. It would make me very happy to know I am of use. That you— that you want me around."

"Screw use, Cas," Dean said. "What does it matter? Besides, you are useful. You're like a fucking ninja with your blade and you've got a whole library in that angel-brain of yours. If you want help with the nitty-gritty street-smarts stuff like shooting and the FBI act, all you've gotta do is ask."

"Are you certain? I do not wish to—"

"Be a burden," Dean finished. "Yeah, I know. Please, just drop it. You're no burden at all, Cas. Not to me. I don't want you worrying about us not wanting you here, alright? I know Sammy loves you like a brother, and I—"

And Dean knew with that slip that there was no way he was getting out of this without putting all his cards out on the table. He bit his lip. He had told himself he'd give it a try, and if things seemed right maybe test the waters, but that stupid 'and' had just put the nail in the coffin. He couldn't lie to Castiel anymore, but that didn't mean he had to fold. He could continue revealing his hand card by card, because if there was one thing that Dean Winchester could not do, he could not just dive in, rip off the fucking bandage and be done with it. Savoring the fear delayed the unknown for just a little longer.

"I always want you around."

For a long moment, all Dean could hear was muted sounds from the bar, distorted chatter from the park carrying on the wind, and the nerve-wracking sound of Castiel's breathing.

"What's yours?"

Dean turned and met the angel's piercing stare. "What?"

"Your resolution."

"I want to make you glad you stayed down here with us," Dean said. "With me."

Castiel frowned. "But Dean, I already am."

Dean was paralyzed as Castiel cautiously took hold of his hand, the touch just a ghost against his skin, asking for permission. Their eyes locked. Dean offered Castiel his palm, fingers spread wide for the taking, should he decide that was what he wanted. He felt the angel's touch relax, tension easing into something more tangible. Fingers slid through his, curling down, capturing Dean's.

Dean squeezed Castiel's hand and felt the pressure returned. It was comforting. Reassuring.

"Cas, I—"

Castiel flinched and dropped Dean's hand, his head whirling around at the sound of the explosion. Dean saw the instinctive fear in the angel's eyes flood away, saw the gigantic colorful burst reflected there. A smile spread wide across Castiel's face. Bloom after bloom of bombastic light erupted in the sky ahead of them and Dean had never seen the angel look so carefree and just plain happy.

So, sure. Earth sucks most of the time, but heaven doesn't have champagne and fireworks.

Dean put his hand to Castiel's cheek and turned the angel's attention away from the light show. As childishly fascinated as Castiel had been by the fireworks, his serious eyes now fixated on Dean's, green irises illuminated on and off by the flashes of color above. Dean's heart felt like it was lodged in his throat and he could barely breathe. Not until Castiel answered his unspoken question by glancing at his mouth for an almost imperceptible fraction of a second.

"Happy New Year, Cas."

Dean leaned in and pressed his lips to Castiel's. Castiel didn't pull back or tense up like Dean thought he might— he hardly moved at all, the two of them frozen still in the kiss. Dean felt Castiel's fingers twine loosely around the wrist of his hand against the angel's face and for a moment Dean feared that Castiel was going to push him away. But then Dean heard the other man's breath hitch and he pulled back.

When Castiel opened his eyes, Dean saw the shine of unshed and unwanted tears. Castiel let go of a breath or a laugh or something, whatever it was, it must have been pure catharsis because it left behind the most beautiful smile Dean had ever witnessed. It was contagious.

Castiel kissed him this time and Dean pulled the angel— his angel— into his lap. Dean slipped his hands underneath the leather coat and around Castiel's back, pressing him tight against his chest, Castiel hugging him in kind. Their mouths moved together unhurried and enthusiastic, a slow and reverent exploration. After suffering through everything that had happened in the years they had known one another, through everything that had led them to this moment, it would be a sin not to savor this. This was a turning of a page, a new chapter in their so-called 'Winchester Gospel.'

Dean let the tip of his tongue brush Castiel's lip and smiled against his mouth as he felt the reaction: a sudden slight shiver snaking through the body he clung to.

"Cold again?"

"No, not anymore," Castiel replied, his voice low and breathy.

A shrieking whistle broke the chain of distant low booms that had become a soothing background noise. Castiel craned his neck to look up to find a long straight trail of smoke, not unlike a missile, bursting into a dazzling curtain of gold stars raining down. Dean took advantage of his angel's distraction and pulled off the scarf, dropping it between them. He nuzzled the bared expanse of Castiel's tempting neck and placed a kiss in hollow below the corner of his jaw. He felt the low vibrations of a contented hum beneath his lips.

"You still need a new resolution," Castiel said quietly, still gazing up at the fireworks.

"No I don't," Dean said. "Because I'm human and we're a bunch of jackasses and somewhere along the line I'm going to do something to make you want to fly away— or run, or whatever. Call me selfish, but I want to do right by you, Cas. I need you here."

Castiel abandoned the fireworks and looked into Dean's eyes. "You never cease to astound me, Dean Winchester. Do you honestly think now that you've—" Castiel fumbled his words, cupping Dean's face in his hands. "Now that I know? You still believe that I could forsake you?"

Dean couldn't find the words to speak. The air around him was crisp and bitter and his most deep-rooted anxieties could not be so easily swayed. His life was a list of one atrocity after another, so now that something good was actually happening for once, it felt foreign. But if the humbling look of adoration in Castiel's eyes and the way it resonated in Dean down to the very core was any indication to go by, Dean didn't think this was the type of story that usually came with an ending.

"No," Dean said. "No, I don't."

Castiel pressed a feather-light kiss to Dean's forehead, then mirrored the movement on the hunter's lips as the last of the fireworks show died above them.

"I'm glad," Castiel said. "Though if you feel the need to feed me burgers and bubbly drinks in order to reassure yourself, I will not object."

Dean laughed and captured Castiel's mouth in a fervent kiss, fingers gripped tight in hair, drinking in every breath.

It was going to be a great year.


End file.
